


Monochrome Man

by breakforanarchy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Sexual Content, sexual fantasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 13:59:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16934547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breakforanarchy/pseuds/breakforanarchy
Summary: Everything about Sherlock is shades of The Work. John adds a splash of color.





	Monochrome Man

This park is unfamiliar to him.

A narrow gravel path winds through short-cropped grass, merging into an arched wooden bridge cut short by utter darkness. To either side of the path, weeping willows stoop low to kiss the ground; their tendril-like branches are longer than they should be, swaying in a breeze that he can’t feel. For a moment he watches, captivated by the brief glimpses of landscape beyond the trees, half expecting some strange creature from a neighboring dimension to be staring back at him.

What a whimsical thought.

Moonlight has washed out the colors of the landscape, leaving only a monochrome of grey. Sherlock often thinks of himself as monochrome—one talent, one fierce focus, one true love; The Work. Everything he does, everything he is, it’s just another shade of the same color. It’s easier that way.

The air is cold. He notices this in the way he often notices injury through adrenaline. He knows the pain is there, waiting with its sharp claws and eager fangs, but he cannot yet feel it. Curious, he opens his mouth and huffs a deliberate breath. Steam forms, writhes with brief life, and dissipates.

Dreams are not unusual to Sherlock. His mind is vivid, asleep or awake. Most are chaotic manifestations of cases, clues exploding and birthing new phoenixes of thought until he wakes on the verge of triumph. Rarely, they are memories of childhood, sweet and warm as sugary tea. He always wakes from those loose with a contentment that never lasts, that he gave up on keeping years ago.

Cold and quiet, though… this is unusual. Interesting.

_Crunch._

The abrupt sound of a footstep in the gravel causes Sherlock to return his gaze to the path. Standing just before the bridge is John, a bright spot of colour in clear defiance of the grey and the dark. The sight prompts Sherlock to look at himself. He is a shadow with pale skin made to glow in the moonlight, void-black everywhere but where his skin is exposed.

“Come here.”

The words are whispered, but Sherlock hears them as though they were breathed directly into his ear. Without pause, he strides forward until John lifts a hand palm out, instructing him to stop mere feet away.

He’s so bright, as though the sun has taken up residence within his hair and his eyes and his smile.

Sherlock wants to speak, but his tongue is heavy in his mouth. He is a cold thing, a creature of the mind; there is no room for John outside The Work, yet the sight of his golden friend leaves him aching to be brought into his body.

John says, “Take off your clothes,” and Sherlock shrugs back his shoulders to let his coat fall to the ground without hesitation.

It takes him a moment to realize he is afraid. His long fingers shake as they work at the buttons of his black silk shirt, his heart flutters against its cage of bone. Every limb feels hollow with dread, muscle scooped out and replaced with jittery nerves that zip about unrestrained just beneath his skin. His shirt flutters away and he breathes through the anxiety of John’s eyes roving hungrily over his bared torso.

Sherlock knows he has a peculiar sort of beauty, has even used it to his advantage on occasion, but it’s never been important before. The need for John to look at him and see a man worthy of wanting, in body as much as mind, gnaws at his nerves until the proof presents itself; dilated pupils, lips parting to allow a sharp intake of breath, a narrowing of eyes and focus as John takes a step closer to him.

“Keep going,” John orders softly.

Anxiety sinks into the background as the need turns to madness. Clothes are torn away, offensive, horrid things, keeping John’s eyes from properly seeing him. By the time he is naked he is also hard; his cock twitches when John reaches out and taps the pad of his index finger to the head. It sends a shock skittering across the surface of Sherlock’s skin—more a reaction to being touched at all than to the touch itself.

“Sherlock,” John murmurs. He pulls in a stuttering breath and curls his hand fully around Sherlock’s cock, gives it the lightest squeeze and a single stroke. Sherlock gasps and flings his head back, staring sightlessly at the starless sky.

“Please,” Sherlock hisses, just a single word because he can’t tell John what he wants—not when he’s still processing it himself.

He wants to be held down and called a slut. He wants to be chased, naked and vulnerable, through the trees until John catches him. He wants to hear John praise him, wants fingers in his mouth and his arse and John’s cock down his throat. He wants to make John force his legs apart and then he wants to be held close while John slides inside him.

It isn’t until John folds a hand around the back of his neck and squeezes tight that he realizes he’s said all of this out loud, verbally processing and filing away each fantasy in his mind palace and, judging by the bulge in his trousers, arousing John in the process.

“Which?” Sherlock gets out before John breathes, “God, all of them,” and crushes their mouths together.

The need is too great for them to follow through with any of the fantasies Sherlock has voiced; in the end, Sherlock is on his back and John is between his legs, fully clothed but for his exposed cock, building on the sense of vulnerability that has Sherlock panting and bucking his hips. The denim of John’s jeans is too rough to feel good, but he’s so worked up that he can’t stop until John lifts up enough to get a hand between them.

“Tell me what you like,” John demands, but Sherlock doesn’t know, so he says, “Fast,” because all he wants just then is to come, to see it all over John’s hand and know that John was the cause of it.

Fast is what he gets. The abrupt build-up of sensation is borderline painful, but it seems he likes that edge of danger because he only spreads his legs wider and arches into John’s hand, mouth open and chest heaving; there isn’t enough air, there never will be, John’s personal sun has burned it all away.

John’s eyes widen. He stares down at Sherlock, his hips stutter and he cries out and oh, he just came, just the sight of Sherlock made him come and that’s all Sherlock needs.

Orgasm has never been anything more than a temporary relief, a moment where his mind went quiet and there was nothing but a pleasant surge of sensation. This is much the same—his mind goes calm, his body shudders and relaxes into the ground—yet the addition of John lends an intensity he doesn’t expect, as mental as it is physical.

Emotional?

A warning bell goes off in his mind, but he quells it for now, perhaps even for good. The Work might become a bit more difficult in the future, but if the trade-off is John’s heavy-lidded gaze, his smile and his fingers dancing up Sherlock’s side, lust satiated yet body still hungry for touch…

Wait.

Sherlock blinks, and he’s staring at the ceiling of their flat. It isn’t grass beneath his back, but the rug in the sitting room. The heating is out, they were going to start a fire.

Fascinating. He created space for a new experience even as he participated in it. He’s added a splash of colour to his monochrome, and seemingly come away intact; perhaps his Work wouldn’t suffer as much as he first thought.

Even if it does… he grasps John’s arms, digs his fingers in until John hisses and bends to nip his throat in retaliation.

Even if it does, John is the one thing in the world that would be worth it.


End file.
